Turn 9 of 16

Confront Mr. Henderson. He screams at you 7 about being a cult as his skin color turns to white and his body and face becomes a 55 year old white women. His hair gets longer, straighter, blonder and styled in the Karen cut. Her outfit becomes a pink linen shirt, Khakis and open toed sandals. Sunglasses cover her eyes. The same name tag with the name Karen on it forms on her left breast.

The garbage can turns out to belong to the Hendersons — of course it does — and Mr. Henderson is dragging the bin back toward his garage when seven identical women descend on him from seven directions. He sees the bobs first, then the sunglasses, then the lists, and the trimmer drops from his hand. 'Oh no. No, no, NO.'

'EXCUSE ME,' the pink-striped Karen begins, baby on hip, 'your trash is overflowing. Your box is on the SIDEWALK. On a SUNDAY.'

'I moved it! I'm moving it RIGHT NOW—'

'Past the rim,' Mrs. Jones says grimly. 'Four inches. We have measurements.'

And Mr. Henderson looks at the seven of them — the same face, the same voice, the same name tag on seven chests — and something in him simply breaks. 'You're a CULT,' he screams, voice climbing, cracking into a register that is not his. 'You're all the same PERSON! You're a cult, you're insane, you can't just—' He screams louder, and the scream is the key, the fatal brassy key, and mid-scream the change takes him.

His hands narrow over the bin handle. His shoulders draw in, his frame thickening and settling into the sturdy build of a fifty-five-year-old woman, lines carving themselves around a mouth that is still yelling. His skin pales to warm white. His hair grows in a wave off his scalp, straightening, lightening from brown through gray to ash blonde, and swings itself into the blunt jaw-length bob — the eighth copy, identical to every other one on the street.

His yard clothes run to pink linen, sleeves shortening into a neat shirt; his jeans march down into khakis; his sneakers flatten into open-toed sandals. Dark sunglasses rise onto her face. And on the left breast of the pink linen, letters surface like something printed beneath the fabric all along: KAREN — HOA.

'—and ANOTHER thing,' she says in the shared voice, planting herself beside the bin she was only just hiding, 'this box has been sitting here since DAWN. I heard it arrive. I want a hearing.' She produces a laminated list from a tote that was not there a moment ago. Eight identical women stand at the end of Maple Ridge Court, eight bobs in the morning light, and the last unconverted adult on the street is no longer unconverted. The baby, unbothered, reaches for the bin lid.